


Under the Influence

by trulygross



Category: Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: A&J are in their 20s, Aaron Davis Has a Heart, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - 2000s, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Brotherly Angst, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Dubcon to Enthusiastic Consent, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Graphic Description, Homophobia, Humiliation, It's fucked up, Jefferson Davis Needs a Hug, Like late 90's or early 00's, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Relationship(s), Rough Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Sloppy Makeouts, Spit Kink, Threesome - M/M/M, Wet & Messy, past original character death, porn with mixed feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26459479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trulygross/pseuds/trulygross
Summary: Four years ago, Aaron Davis met someone who changed his life. Temporarily, for the better. Ultimately, for the worst.Today, he's living with the consequences.One of them being a slowly-deteriorating relationship with his best friend and sibling, Jefferson. The other, a disgraceful proposition from his crime boss.He lives in a stressful plateau, certain he bore the brunt of the godawful changes.He's proven wrong one night when Kingpin calls him and Jefferson in for a "meeting."
Relationships: Aaron Davis/Jefferson Davis, Aaron Davis/Jefferson Davis/Wilson Fisk, Aaron Davis/Wilson Fisk, Jefferson Davis/Rio Morales (Mentioned), Past Aaron Davis/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young criminal Aaron Davis reports to his boss after a successful mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp if you're reading this for the first time or rereading this, hi. This fic evolved from 100% horné pwp trash to.... _a story??_ with like... _backstory???_
> 
> Weird.

“Come here.”

Aaron’s skin pricks at the sharp command. He approaches the crime lord sitting beside his wide oak desk. Behind him, stark white moonlight and scattered cityscape lights shine through the glass walls. Bathing the office while his front remains shadowed.

“On your knees.”

He stops short. Swallows as his stomach drops. An unfortunately familiar, and not entirely unpleasant, sensation.

“Do I have to repeat myself?”

Aaron presses his lips together and drops onto one knee, then the other.

“You performed exceptionally well, Davis, as usual.”

Aaron nods.

“Thank you, Mr. Fisk.” He says, chest pinching with conflicting emotions.

Fisk spins his wedding band off his thick finger, and tucks it away in a ring box on his desk, then slides it into a drawer.

Aaron finds it kinda funny how superstitious this part of the routine is. As if Madam Kingpin might catch wind of his sins through the gold ring

Next, Fisk digs in his breast pocket and takes out a cigar and a chrome Zippo. A flick of his thumb makes it spark. Flashes outline his crude features. He holds the end of the cigar to the flame until it glows red and smokes. He shuts the lighter and tosses it on the desk before he slumps back against the cushioned chair.

“I suppose you would appreciate a reward for all your troubles, hm?”

He bristles at that, as always.

God knows this wasn’t at the forefront of his mind when he accepted high-risk operations. Like some dangling carrot. But he also knows Fisk is just talking shit, trying to get a rise out of him for the hell of it.

Keeping silent, he watches Fisk reach inside his suit jacket and pull out a few items, ones Aaron knows all too well.

Fisk holds the brown glass vial up between his index and thumb. Light catches the edges. Pretty as a gemstone. Then he uncurls his other fingers. A small bag with white tabloids hangs between his middle and ring fingers.

Aaron curses the flare in his gut.

The sight stirs that sick fracture he keeps chained in the pit of his subconscious.

He shudders, eyes flitting away.

“Cut the act,” Fisk says, shaking the vial. “I don’t have all night.”

Aaron’s tongue runs over his teeth. His gaze stays low as he holds his hand out. A shiver runs down his spine when the glass falls in his palm.

Keeping his hands steady, he uncaps the vial. Acrid fumes instantly shoot up his nostrils and pierce his brain like a switchblade.

His eyes screw shut as he holds the glass away, alternating between coughing into his elbow and rubbing his burning nose.

“Goddamn!”

“Good, eh?”

There’s a light snap and the pills click against each other.

Aaron’s stinging eyes blink open and fall on Fisk as he settles a white tab on his tongue. He then sighs and slumps deeper into the chair.

“Yeah,” Aaron admits. “Strong as hell, though. Almost passed out just opening it.”

Fisk’s chin lifts a little at that. Then his lips curl in a way that says he’s got an idea—and Aaron’s not gonna like it.

“Take another whiff.”

Aaron clears his throat, shakes his head. “Nah, nah, I’m good, sir, really.”

He offers the vial back, but Fisk doesn’t move, just stares at him expectantly.

“Go ahead.”

Sounds so conversational. Might as well be offering a slice of apple pie. But a glint shines in his dark eyes the same way the moonlight reflected off the glass vial. Making it clear to Aaron that there are consequences if he doesn’t heed.

So he does.

Glass under his nose, he plugs one side, forces his nerves to relax, and takes a deep pull of the vapors.

Shit hits harder than a nasty jab to the skull.

He barely registers the fingers taking the glass from him. He’s too busy coughing up a lung and sneezing his brain out, which is pounding harder than a nightclub speaker bumping Dr. Dre.

Fisk mutters something as they trade poisons, but Aaron’s too focused on praying he doesn’t wake up with a migraine and a bloody nose in the morning to catch it.

After two quick but deep sniffs, Fisk deflates like a hot air balloon. Eyes closed, his head tilts back as he lets the liquid gold tweak his mind. This could be nothing more than a meditation session for him.

Brazillian tobacco and solvent waft through the air while Aaron pours a tab out the bag and pops it in his mouth. Mint and passion fruit spikes his taste buds, and soon, he finds himself in a similar state as Fisk.

Head back, eyes shut, inhaling and exhaling.

Breathing in the high. Breathing out the burn.

Breathing in swirling vertigo. Breathing out his grip on reality.

Breathing in the deep, dark craving. Breathing out all inhibitions.

“Don’t tell me you’re a lightweight, Davis.”

Aaron’s eyes fly open. He nearly falls over when his head snaps back up.

The world teeters side to side. It’s like he huffed a potion from Alice in Wonderland and Fisk’s office was suddenly transported to a ship at sea.

He blinks, fast, until the boulder of a man in his throne of leather steadies into focus. Fisk has a large hand settled over his crotch and is slowly palming himself.

Not more than a minute or two passed, though his body clock says otherwise.

“Get to it.”

Aaron nods, even though Fisk’s eyes are still closed.

He swallows the fruity puddle on his tongue before inching closer. Fisk’s thighs spread apart and Aaron settles in the space big enough for three of him.

His vision’s a little hazy and his hands shake a little, as if they’re still on the ship, rocking on gentle waves. Still, he manages to undo the buckle (the silver feels like ice to the touch), tug the zipper down ( _straight down_ , he tells himself, _zippers don’t zig-zag_ ), and coax Fisk’s cock out of his trunks.

Overhead, Fisk puffs his cigar. Ash and smoke blend with the sweaty musk pouring off his skin, and as Aaron’s hand cups the sizable girth, fingers barely touching, his brain flickers.

The lights upstairs just short-circuited.

There’s no turning back now.

With a resigned sigh, he surrenders to the hunger simmering in his gut and sucks the tip into his mouth.

Moving his hand up and down the soft shaft, his tongue swirls around the foreskin, dips into the slit. Salt and sweat mix with the pill’s fruity aftertaste, coating his tongue. The taste pulls a soft moan from him. Makes his mouth water for more.

“Come on Davis, surely you can do better than that.”

Eyes closed, he sucks air through his nose and bobs a little lower.

“More.”

Relaxing his throat muscles, he swallows more. Inch by inch, until his nose buries into the other man’s dark pubes.

“Good.”

On one hand, he’s appreciating the calm while it lasts, namely how easy it is to eat Fisk’s cock all the way to the base. Because once Mr. Fisk gets hard and takes charge, he’ll push Aaron’s jaw and sanity to the brink of breaking.

But on the other hand, he’s disturbingly thrilled by the prospect of a fucked-raw throat and his mind empty of everything else but a pain-pleasure cocktail.

He hums at the thought and a shiver rips through him as if the room’s temperature dropped below zero.

Feels good.

Gulping around Fisk’s dick, pleasure washes over him. Like adrenaline soaring through his veins.

He hums again.

The vibration massages his brain. Tickles his nerves. Leaves his head all light and tingly when it passes.

Shit feels _real_ good.

He’s quickly lost in a cocoon of sounds—moans, slurps, and squelches—as he swivels his head back and forth, base to tip. Chasing the dizzying sensations.

He’s so loud he nearly misses Fisk muttering: “What a slut.”

Spit pools in his mouth. He feels it leak out the corners of his mouth and stick to his chin and lips. It makes it easier to slip down the organ as it hardens and grows in his mouth.

Speaking of hard...

Aaron’s at the point where he can’t take it all in. Can’t even go more than halfway down without his jaw aching something fierce.

But fuck if he doesn’t try his damnedest anyway. Slurping and gagging as if his life depends on going balls deep and he’s failing miserably.

It’s not until his eyes sting and his jaw demands a break, that he pulls off, burbling like a drowning man coming up for air.

 _“Fuck.”_ He croaks.

Saliva hangs off his swollen lips and chin as he works both hands up, down, and around Fisk’s drenched cock. Wet slicks resound in the glass and chrome office, loud as sin in his ears, pumping white-hot blood down south.

He hears Fisk take a deep pull on his cigar. Then his nostrils fill with notes of pepper and cedar as smoky wisps halo ’round his head.

A funny image. Ironic even. On his knees, his head bowed, bathed in heavenly light.

Then Fisk sits up straight. He lays his cigar in the ashtray and waves Aaron’s hand away so he can replace it with his own.

Compared to Aaron’s struggle, it’s kinda mesmerizing how easy he makes it look. How the 7-inch length almost shrinks in his broad hold. How easily his large fingers circle around the girth.

Fisk’s other hand grabs the back of Aaron’s head and as he lets out a low growl, he smacks his dick against Aaron’s cheek. (It almost made him chuckle. As if he needed to be held in place for this.)

Moaning as if this is all a wet dream, Aaron nuzzles the shaft like it’s a pillow—if pillows were made of warm, veiny, velvet.

“You like that?”

Fisk drags his dick across Aaron’s face. Swipes slowly from one cheek to the other. Smears Aaron’s spit and his own pre-cum on high cheekbones and full lips.

Through Aaron’s cloudy, rose-colored vision, he seems to be fascinated by the debauchery. The way a scientist is when during an experiment. He also seems intent on seeing how he can push Aaron to the breaking point this time.

And Aaron would be lying if he said he wasn’t keen on knowing the answer.

“Yes sir,” he whispers, entranced by how cool his damp skin feels.

“Like serving this fat cock?” Fisk sneers then. “A _real_ _man’s_ cock?”

Sober-Aaron would’ve ground his teeth and threw hands at that. But he’s gone now, lost somewhere in the menthol-scented fog clouding his mind.

This Aaron, drunk on salt and sweat, high on the throbbing pain in his boxers just _moans._ Deep and long. Then flattens his tongue against the meaty cock as it drags over his lips.

Fisk seems to get off on the initiative. Judging by him jerking Aaron’s head back and slapping his mushroom head against his tongue.

Aaron’s eyes flutter shut. Savoring the hefty weight, the manhandling, everything.

“Answer me, boy.” Fisk orders and his calloused fingers smack Aaron’s left then right cheek.

Sober Aaron would be livid right about now. Also mortified, and drowning in self-hatred.

But this Aaron’s breathing gets shaky because now his cheeks tingle like fizz in soda pop.

He’s slipping faster and faster, deeper and deeper.

Everything feels good.

Too good.

Blinking and gaining his bearings as best he can, Aaron nods.

“Uh-huh.”

God, he doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t want to waste energy on something as petty as words.

What he does want, is that heavy-ass dick back in his mouth. Preferably far back enough to cut off his air.

But the bossman ain’t having it.

Fisk leans closer and grips Aaron’s jaw hard enough to bruise.

“ _Speak_.”

Tobacco and brandy sweeps over Aaron and Christ, he is _this_ close to whining, because he can’t. His brain might as well be a bowl of alphabet soup that he’s dipping into with a fork.

But with each passing second, Fisk’s grip tightens, and eventually, Aaron fishes something out.

“Like it,” he mutters. “Like it so much, sir.”

“You do?”

“Yes sir.” He licks his lips. “Want more.”

Fisk snorts, his lips curl with an amused twitch. He lets Aaron’s face go and leans back, seemingly satisfied with his answer. A brief pause while he retrieves his cigar and blows a couple of smoke circles.

“Well, since you’ve assured me you enjoy servicing my genitals so much, Mr. Davis...”

He pauses, clenches the cigar between his molars. Then his calm, formal mien curdles into sadistic amusement. Jekyll turning into Hyde.

“Why don’t you choke on it?”

Aaron blinks, shakes his head, trying to keep up with the sudden shift.

“Wha—”

His mouth hangs open min-sentence when Fisk grabs his head on both sides and shoves his face into his crotch. Lodging his rock hard cock in his mouth.

“Open up, cocksucker.”

There’s that hand smacking Aaron’s cheeks again. He gets the point, but he also knows that hand might curl into a fist if his boss feels teeth.

So he jerks his head up, trying to get the message across that he needs to come up real quick.

Luckily, the hands let up just enough for him to pull off, wrap his lips around his teeth. And then he’s shoved back down, dick stretching his lips tight and thin.

“That’s it. Come on, fucker, get it all in there,” Fisk growls.

He pushes Aaron lower, slowly forcing himself deeper and deeper without stopping.

Pained groans leak out as Aaron’s lips steadily stretch, barely midway down.

“You did it before, you can do it again.”

Aaron chokes. His throat throbs, begging for a reprieve.

For the first time tonight, he puts his hands on Fisk’s thighs and struggles against the heavyweight. All the while, despite the burn, keeping his teeth covered, otherwise, they’ll sink into the suffocating organ... Which is becoming more and more tempting as his air supply dwindles.

Fisk’s chuckle makes Aaron’s chest pinch.

“Where do you think you’re going? Huh?”

He knows Fisk is grinning, finding his distress comical.

“Stupid little faggot.” Fisk spits, his humor suddenly dried up. “Don’t you know what ’all of it’ means?”

Realizing that the big man’s not gonna let up, Aaron’s body attempts a last-ditch effort to compensate and sends his saliva glands into overdrive.

Spit fills his mouth. Mixes with the pre-cum. Gushes through the tiny space between his lips. It lubricates the girth and allows him to swallow more with a squelch.

“That’s right. I knew you’d like this.”

Aaron’s torn on that.

On one hand, this is the first time he’s ever been close crossing the thin line between passing out and dying from giving head. But, giving head while his body is in survival mode adds a sharp kick to his high.

He’ll never remember—admit—if he did, but Aaron might’ve sobbed at that. Some tears might’ve slipped as well.

Christ, what the fuck is wrong with him?

Fisk laughs and carries on.

“This is all sissies like you are good for, isn’t it?”

Instead of pushing Aaron down the remaining inches, he gives a deep thrust. He chuckles at the wet, spluttered gags he punches out of Aaron as he fucks his throat at a steady pace.

“Being a good little dicksucker. Gagging on hung alpha cock.”

He grips Aaron’s skull and jerks his head up so he looks up at him. A furious god is glaring at him through a sea of polluted clouds. Judging and condescending.

Seeing him for the abomination he is.

“Something you’ll never have.”

Malicious heat laces the hard tone. As if it’s meant to imprint Aaron’s mind like a red-hot brand.

Maybe it would’ve worked if he wasn’t already wearing his armor of self-loathing.

Suddenly a primal growl rips out of Fisk, rumbling behind gritted teeth as he locks Aaron facedown in his crotch. Hips rocking as he floods Aaron’s mouth with thick, hot cum.

Aaron gags. Cum slips down his throat. Sticks to the roof of his mouth.

“That’s a good pussy,” Fisk huffs, chuckling at the ruined noises Aaron’s making. “Take it, fucking _take it_.”

Fisk keeps humping his mouth, pumping seed faster than he can drink.

His throat tightens. Pressure builds in his sinuses.

His pulse pounds in his skull. Overloading his senses.

He can’t breathe.

It’s too much.

Can’t breathe.

Something’s gotta give.

JesusfuckingChristhecan’t—

And then he coughs. Coughs again.

He gives a chest-deep hack, and then a deep, wet, _hard_ snort.

A stick of mental TNT blows his brain to grey, gooey bits. The back of his throat mouth clears and cloudy mucus oozes out his nose.

He plugs one nostril, blows as hard as he can. Once it’s clear enough for him to breathe, he does the same on the other side.

Then, realizing what he’s done, his eyes widen. Oh, God, that’s—

“Disgusting.” Frisk sneers as if reading his mind.

Spilling all of this filth in Fisk’s lap like a ten dollar street corner whore.

Aaron shudders.

A whisper of his conscience despises the wreck he’s become.

Mortified by how many nights he’s wasted like this. Puts him on blast for not getting rid of his sickness, no matter how many females he’s fucked in motels or strip clubs.

But right here, right now, the majority of his conscience doesn’t give a fuck.

He’s content in this neck-deep, chemical-induced cesspit, feeling deliciously dazed and broken.

He’ll probably—definitely—spend tomorrow nursing a blinding headache with cognac and Ibuprofen. Promising himself for the nth time that last night was it, and he’ll find a chick that’ll fix him for good.

Until then, he’s riding this out for what it’s worth.

“Clean it up you piece of shit.”

He lets out a whine he sucks up the rest of the thick bitter ropes. Or what his burning throat will allow, at least. Most of it sits on his tongue, coats his teeth.

“And don’t spill one fucking drop.”

It seems Aaron miraculously retained a few brain cells. Because a voice in his head shouts back: “And how in the entire fuck am I supposed to do that?”

But Aaron has no interest in finding out what’ll happen if he messes up the man’s designer suit pants. So, eyes screwed shut, he hollows his cheeks as tight as possible and takes his time sucking his Fisk’s dick like an air-tight vacuum.

Eventually, he pulls off with a loud pop, leaves the dick shiner and cleaner than polished wood.

Sitting back, he wipes his nose and eyes, and before he can try swallowing the sour cocktail, his eyes meet his boss’s.

God-fucking-dammit he’s got _that look_ again.

“Open up.”

His brow furrows and his lips tighten even more as he shakes his head and holds up a hand: _I’m not done._

But beady eyes narrow. As if he defied Fisk. Although he can’t begin to figure out why he got that look, Aaron obeys. He tilts his head back, lets his jaw fall. Before he blinks, two sausage fingers jam into his mouth.

It all happens so fast Aaron can’t stop himself from biting down.

A swift backhand. Not hard enough to bruise, but a sound warning.

“Don’t.”

Aaron hopes that warning was only meant for biting his fingers and not for making a bigger mess. Because the blow just knocked cum and mucus out of his nose and onto Fisk’s knuckles.

So much for not spilling a drop.

Lucky for him, Fisk ignores this slipup with a derisive humph. But now Aaron’s worried about falling over and keeping his throat relaxed.

Not even close to an easy task.

Not with Fisk smearing fluids down his tongue, just far enough for Aaron’s throat to tighten and his eyes to water, before curling it all back to the front. Jesus, how and why he knows how to do this perverted party trick, Aaron will never know—never wants to know.

But goddamn it’s doing _something_ to him _._

(God help Tomorrow-Morning-Hungover-Aaron. He thought the flashbacks of the other nights were bad...)

Then, soon as they enter, the fingers yank out. Splattering fluids down Aaron’s chin and shirt. He nearly crumples on the spot, he’s so fucked. But he doesn’t. He coughs, pants for air, and forces his back to straighten.

Because it ain’t over til the fat dude sings.

Smoke pours into his face then. Burns his eyes. Stings his nose. Taints the more sour-than-sweet-flavors on his tongue. Now it _really_ takes everything in him not to (throw up? cough? sneeze?) fucking combust.

“Get that shit out of my sight.”

Fisk wipes his fingers on Aaron’s shirt before shoving him away. Like he dribbled on his loafers. Aaron wonders if he accidentally did, but that would’ve led to a more severe punishment.

When his back hits the floor, the slimy mixture slips back and catches in the back of his throat. He’s so tempted to cough it up, but then something hard presses against his jeans and _fuck_ the whimper that just fluttered out _._

His bleary vision catches the golden tip of Fisk’s cane on his bulge. He gives a shaky groan as the cane presses down harder.

“What did I say?”

Closing his eyes and licking the corners of his mouth, Aaron forces it all down with a hard, audible gulp.

“Good.”

And that’s where it should have ended.

But he’s got his excuses.

One, he’s on the edge of his high.

Slipped off the roof of the tallest skyscraper in New York City. Certain sunshine, lollipops, and cotton candy will break his fall.

Two, he’s harder than the diamond atop Fisk’s cane.

There’s no way he’ll get back home with a steel rod between his legs. Let alone get up off the floor.

Three, his body is begging for release with a vengeance.

As in, if he doesn’t bust a nut in the next five minutes, he’ll go into cardiac arrest, and then find himself face-to-face with either the Maker or the devil. (And though he’s not religious, he does have a preference.)

And so instead of forcing himself up and limping to the private elevator that’ll take him to the garage, where an anonymous driver waits to take his sleepy ass home, Aaron-high-as-a-kite-Davis presses his back against the floor and thrusts his hips against the cane.

He hisses at the fiery flare-up in his pelvis while the remnants of his brain zeros in on the painful pleasure in his dick.

“Well, well, well. Looks like the insatiable little slut hasn’t had his fill.”

The snide chuckle makes Aaron’s stomach twist into a knot.

“How ironic.”

A whisper sneaks out. It’s so soft he’s sure it’ll pass by unnoticed.

But no, Fisk leans a little closer and asks, “What was that?”

His cane presses a smidge harder.

“Speak up.”

“Please.”

Christ, is he crying? Probably. His eyes are leaking, again. A reflection of his body’s cry for release.

“Please, Mr. Fisk, I-I need—”

Fisk cuts him off. Cold and irritated. “What makes you think I care about your so-called needs?”

He knows the other man doesn’t give a shit. He knows. But he can’t help it.

“Please” keeps pouring from his lips. His hips hump at the cane’s end. Chasing his orgasm like a bloodhound on a white rabbit’s trail.

Part of him argues that if he plays his cards right, this could be one of those rare nights where Fisk tosses him a bone. If only to shut him up.

Then at least Aaron won’t have to spend the night fucking his hand like some high school virgin.

“Aren’t you the poster child of pathetic little faggots.” Fisk goes on. A scientist watching a rat react to poisoned cheese. “Squirming around like a worm on a hook while crying like a bitch in heat.”

The cane digs deeper, twists harder. Aaron lets out a shocked gasp.

“Quite fitting, wouldn’t you say?”

With that, Fisk lifts the cane. Aaron’s about to scream...something. No. Please. Anything, not giving a damn if the whole city heard him.

But then Fisk spins the cane around and slams the diamond topper right on Aaron’s dick like a nail in a coffin.

It’s going to be weeks before Aaron can look in a mirror.

Days before he stops guzzling liquor until he can’t hold a thought.

Hours before Sober-Aaron stops cussing him out for being a fucking disappointment.

But right here, right now, that heavenly free-fall he was imagining earlier has just ended in a crash and burn.

His eyes roll back so hard, so fast, he’s seeing stars. No, an entire galaxy.

Blinking. Twinkling. Glittering.

Everything’s turned to paralyzed jelly. Head to toe.

He can’t tell his arm from his leg. His ass from his foot.

Chest heaving, he blinks. The stars follow him back to reality and dance around the room. Tiny angels.

There’s the faintest awareness of wetness spreading in his boxer briefs. Of the numb throbbing in his pelvis.

But besides that, he’s empty. No thoughts, no wants, no desire.

He’s so empty he could float away.

Or better yet, sleep for two days straight.

There’s a thoughtful hum, then a dull voice from above disturbs his peace.

“What would Jefferson think if he saw you?” Says the big smoke cloud hovering in the moonlight.

There’s a stormy face behind the grey veil, regarding him like committed blasphemy.

Damn straight.

He didn’t miss the slight. And if he was truly ready to die (sweaty, cum-stained and all) Aaron would counter by asking about Madam Kingpin.

But as he already knows, Fisk talks shit because he can.

He’s Kingpin. He can say whatever the hell he wants and get away with it. And sometimes what comes out, as low of a blow as it may be, has a kick of truth that makes the recipient keep quiet.

Like now.

Aaron’s too fucked out to consider Fisk’s words seriously. But when he wakes up and everything comes crashing in faster than a 20-car pileup, and he has to explain away the headache and bleary eyes and raspy voice...

Fisk reaches into the desk drawer, pulls out the ring box, and gives Aaron the usual instructions as he puts his wedding ring back on.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes to get your shit together and get the fuck out.”

His cane taps against the tiled floor as he gets up and walks to the office door. Stepping over Aaron like he’s a leper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry Aaron ily lol It's just the more I wrote the filthier it got.)
> 
> Honestly, this right here was a _**wild**_ 2 week ride to write. But hey, gotta do my username justice right? So here we go, breaking the smut-writing-cherry baby!
> 
> Also fun fact: Not that it really matters, but, the Kingpin in my head as I wrote this was from the KINGPIN comics (specifically the cell-shaded THUG series covers) cuz imagining Spider-Verse Kingpin's Roblox proportions was fucking with me lol
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> If you enjoyed it, stay tuned for Part II.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five months have passed. Aaron gets a message from Fisk. The brothers' evening goes south when Jeff says the wrong thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry, it's a wee bit late. Editing's a bitch. (◞‸◟;)) Edit: And so is Ao3's draft to feed format...had to re-upload so it would actually show up as a recent update. Sorry I'm a n00b...
> 
> If you're still on this ride with me, I love you dearly.  
> The fact that _anyone_ clicked this after reading the tags is amazing lol
> 
> Special shoutout to leila and BabaTunji for your comments and to Kahlem and XxCruelWorldxx for the kudos! ♡

It’s a mild August afternoon.

The trees lining the street sway in the wind, full and lime-green. Adults gather on back stoops and front porches. Gossiping over cigarettes, lemonade, and beer. Kids laugh and yell over each other as they race after dogs, soccer balls, and ice cream trucks. Carefree as they milk their last days of freedom.

Summer is still in the air, but its presence is light, compared to the past two months.

So Aaron appreciates the breeze that sweeps into Big Houston’s garage and the familiar seasonal smells that trail in with it. Sweet smoked wood, baking trash, charred meat, and fresh lbawn clippings.

He’s hunched over the workbench, replacing the capacitor in his friend’s floor speaker. T.J.’s on his new bike, looping figure 8’s in and out of the garage. And while OutKast blares through the open doorway from the boombox in the kitchen, Big Houston yammers away. Aaron half-listens to one of his many celeb chicks I could’ve banged, but, fill in the blank stories.

“I’m tellin’ you dog," Big Houston says, smacking his fist against his palm. “If I had got her alone in the VIP room? _Shiiit_.”

He chuckles to himself as he hits his blunt. Smoke streams out his mouth and catches the draft from the fan blowing next to him.

“Security would’ve found her face down, ass up, brain dead.”

Wrapping a stripped wire lead around the new capacitor, Aaron snickers.

“No lie?” He asks.

“No, sir. She would’ve been so gone that her manager would have to change her name to Halle Broccoli.”

Big Houston wheezes and doubles over himself, laughing and coughing. Aaron claps his back a few times. When his mirth dies down, Big Houston lets out a long reminiscent sigh, then shrugs.

“But she mentioned she had an audition in the morning, and I ain’t wanna mess with her paper or nothin’. You feel me? I woulda fucked the script outta her.”

Aaron has a comeback on the tip of his tongue when T.J. rolls back inside the garage.

He tosses in, "Only Berry you gonna sleep with is Aunt Retta’s blueberry pie.”

Aaron drops his pliers as a cackle rips through him.

“Ay, that’s a good one, T.J.,” he says, holding a fist out.

Big Houston clicks his tongue.

“Boy, shut your—”

He reaches over and smacks his little cousin’s bike handle, sniggering as T.J. misses Aaron’s fist bump with a wobbly swerve. He nearly crashes into Civic parked near the wall but regains control just in time and veers outside.

“Quit hatin’!” He shouts over his shoulder.

Big Houston harrumphs and passes his blunt to Aaron when something beeps. Aaron digs in his cargo pocket and pulls out his pager.

His mouth twists, but his stomach twists tighter.

“What’s up?” Big Houston asks.

Aaron takes a deep hit, holds the smoke, then exhales through his nose.

“Work. I gotta go.”

He slides the pager back in his pocket.

“I’ll hit you up later. And you better not touch this while I’m gone,” he says, waving a hand over the mess on the workstation.

Big Houston gives him a look as Aaron leans down and gives him dap.

“Bro, you already know I ain’t the one you gotta worry about messing with your shit.”

As if on cue, T.J. pedals back into the garage, and brakes in front of them. He stares up at Aaron.

“Where you going?”

Aaron stops himself from sighing or rolling his eyes.

The kid knows Aaron’s track record since he shares a colorful history with Big Houston. Plus, he always pokes his nose in places it doesn’t belong anyway. Eavesdropping when he thinks no one notices him. Following any sign of trouble because “nothing exciting ever happens over here.”

He saw Aaron’s career as an adventure. Something out of the movies he’s not supposed to watch.

T.J. should be grateful his neighborhood is so peaceful. Especially with all the shit that goes down around it, like it’s some secluded island. But that’s what happens when a kid gets sick of the same old, same old. Going to school five days a week (six including Sunday School), doing homework, and hanging out at the park.

Doesn’t matter that it’s for his good. He sees himself as a nobody standing on the sidelines watching the big boys rumble and tumble in the field.

Chasing off rival gangs. Running from cops. Screwing a different female every other day. Flossin’ hot cars, cold ice, and new kicks.

He thinks it’s the high-life. Not understanding the true cost of it all. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

“Don’t worry about it," Aaron tells T.J. “This is grown folk business. What you need to do is get in this house and get ready for school on Monday.”

Scoffing, T.J. waves a dismissive hand.

“Man, fuck that. Lemme come with you, A-Dog! I know you could use some backup!”

He swings quick jabs at the air, grunting as he punches an imaginary enemy. Sloppy and uncoordinated, as usual.

He’s not much older than Aaron was when he started doing petty shit for cash. Co-hosting underground poker games in the church basement. Stripping cars for parts. Shoplifting at the mall.

Beeps and vibrations in his pocket take him out of his thoughts.

Those were easier times.

Shaking his head, Aaron hits the blunt again before passing it back to Big Houston.

“Trust me lil’ man,” he says. “You don’t want none of this.”

He slugs T.J. in his shoulder, a little harder than necessary. But not as hard as Aaron’s had to punch to save his own hide. As T.J. would have to to survive.

“Right. You need to sit down somewhere before you get yourself hurt.” Big Houston adds, watching T.J. grimace, rubbing his shoulder. “We all know your lil’ ass can’t fight anyway.”

Irked by the ego check, T.J. leans on his handlebar and snaps back, “Shut up, Houston, you ain’t my daddy!”

He lets Aaron ruffle his short dreads as a goodbye, and as he turns his bike around, mutters: “Fat fuck.”

That’s the red flag that triggers the bull.

Metal creaks and groans as Big Houston shimmies and rolls himself out of his chair.

Aaron smirks, recognizing the rodeo that’s about to unfold, and pats T.J.’s back.

 _“¡Ándale, T.J.! ¡Ándale!_ ”

Raising a brow, T.J. glances behind him and shrieks seeing Big Houston on his feet. Scrambling away on the pedals, T.J. speeds off right as Big Houston snatches at his shirt.

Aaron salutes him as he charges out the garage.

“What was that?” He yells, jogging a steady pace down the street. “Fat what?”

Big Houston’s not a fast or graceful runner, but the man has stamina. It’ll be a while before he loses steam. So the moment T.J. stops for a breather, it’s over.

“Cuz, I was playing! I was playing! Aaron, help!”

Aaron follows them out to the sidewalk, chuckling.

As neighbors watch them pass by, some shout at T.J. to pedal like the wind. Others chant, “Get ’em, big fella!” at Big Houston.

Memories come to Aaron. Of how his and Jeff’s disputes in the past lead to similar situations. Fights that slipped into roughhousing, that ended with them goofing off like they weren’t at each other’s necks twenty minutes ago.

That was how they resolved their issues, every time, no in-betweens.

No miscommunication. No cold shoulders. No silent treatments.

His pager goes off one last time and he gets moving.

* * *

Five street corners away he reaches an empty phone booth in front of a fish fry joint. People stand around the restaurant entrance, talking and eating out of to-go boxes. They don’t pay him any mind when he slides into the booth.

Shutting the door, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his bi-fold wallet. A short, wide piece of cylindrical metal lies between the leather and his fingers.

Eying his surroundings, he fishes out two quarters and feeds the coin box.

The crowd keeps conversating. Pedestrians walk by without a care while he screws the round metal onto the mouthpiece. Keeping it loose enough to spin off when the call ends.

He pockets his wallet. Leans against the glass wall, his back to the sidewalk. Holding the handset against his ear, he fiddles with the small buttons circling a mesh patch.

A quick look left, then right. No one’s watching him.

Doesn’t make him feel any calmer.

While the dial tone plays, he huffs out a breath. Wipes his hands on his pants. A click breaks the tone and he clears his throat.

“You called?”

There’s a slight crackle in his ear as he speaks. Signaling his voice is now low and warped.

“I’m holding a small meeting at my office tonight. Ten sharp.” Fisk says, straight to the point. “There’s been a change of plans that requires you and your brother’s presence.”

Aaron slumps further against the wall as relief washes over him.

A meeting. That’s all this is about.

He holds back a smile as he says, “Yes sir.”

Then he remembers something.

“Actually, J can’t come in tonight. He has some premade plans to take care of.”

“I understand it’s under short-notice. However, failure to attend will not be tolerated,” Fisk says, unmoved. “I assure you financial compensation will be arranged for the inconvenience. Perhaps I’ll award him a well-deserved promotion. Should he agree to a few stipulations.”

Aaron’s tongue pokes his cheek. That’s not going to entice Jeff worth a damn, but it gets Fisk’s point across.

There’s no room for compromise.

“Understood.”

Fisk hangs up after that.

Aaron shakes his head as he twists the modulator off.

Jeff’s not gonna be happy about this, he thinks, pocketing the device.

He does a quick look around. Coast is still clear.

Ah, what the hell.

He taps the hookswitch, punches in a series of numbers, and turns the coin return lever. Three seconds later, there’s a clatter. He hangs the handset in its cradle and retrieves four quarters.

Not bad.

Hands in his jacket pockets, he exits the phone booth and goes inside the fish fry.

Might as well grab a bite to eat while he’s here.

* * *

The past five months of work came and went without a hitch. Aaron continues to maintain his status as one of Fisk’s top-ranking enforcers. And Jefferson has proven himself as one of the chief musclemen.

To his chagrin, as he often reminds Aaron.

( _This is all_ your _fault._ )

He doesn’t say anything out loud, because he knows he deserves it to an extent. But at the same time, it’s almost been a year. It’s getting real old and petty of Jeff to keep rubbing it in his face.

Not talking days after a dodgy operation. Staying out of the apartment on their days off. Oh yeah. Can’t forget when he used to fuck up on purpose. Let his footwork and deliveries get sloppy and give the opponent the upper hand. Just long enough that his injuries would warrant extended stays at the hospital.

That pissed Aaron off to no end.

Doesn’t he know by now that Aaron wishes things had worked out differently? That Aaron would give anything to go back and prevent his recruitment? That if he’d known their bond would deteriorate to this degree, he would’ve kept his hands clean of the underworld?

No, no he doesn’t.

But there is one good thing that’s come out of this. One thing that motivated Jeff to stop trying to get himself killed and just keep his head down and do as he’s told.

Not long ago, Jeff admitted himself for bi-weekly therapy at the same hospital he stayed in to recover from his “accidents.”

( _To cope with the trauma._

Aaron had scoffed at that, but whatever. As long as he didn’t spill anything that connected him to Aaron, or Fisk, he was free to spend his paychecks as he pleased. Even if that included sit-downs with some uptight, pencil twiddling, dinosaur with a useless plaque hanging on his wall like a platinum album.)

Long story short, he got a crush on one of the nurse’s aides assigned to his care. After being discharged, he decided to go back to the hospital for therapy. He just so happened to schedule his sessions around her afternoon shift. They “crossed paths” enough times for him to work up the nerve to invite her to coffee at the cafeteria. Which snowballed into regular meet-ups during her fifteen-minute break. And now, here they are, going out on dates as regularly as their schedules allow.

Tonight included.

It’s 8:34 PM. Aaron’s watching a movie while Jeff sits at the table behind him, reading a book on criminal law.

He’s been real interested in criminal justice lately. Disturbingly so. Seeing as the majority of their livelihood depends on accepting work from New York’s crime lord and all…

The first time Aaron asked him about it, Jeff said something about keeping up with law enforcement trends to be “one step ahead of the man.”

Bullshit. But Aaron but didn’t push it.

Jeff hasn’t taken up some holier than thou attitude and talked his ear off about ethics and moral codes. Thank God. So, Aaron gives him space and lets him live his life.

Just like Jeff has always let him live his.

When the movie ends, it’ll be nine o’clock, and they’ll be heading for the subway station.

Jeff doesn’t know that yet...

There are 25 minutes left of the film when Aaron finally breaks the news to him.

“Boss wants us to come in,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Tonight?” Jeff shouts back over the din of gunfire and screeching car tires.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re just now telling me?”

Aaron rubs the back of his neck.

“Sorry, it slipped my mind.”

Jeff has no clue that Aaron does his best to leave him out of Fisk’s dealings when he could. Especially when it interrupts time with his girlfriend. The only thing that’s brought light into his life.

But the request for them both to be present tonight was set in stone. He couldn’t dig a way out for Jeff this time.

So he kept the afternoon phone call to himself to postpone ruining the chipper mood Jeff’s had all day. But now Jeff must see it as time wasted getting hyped for his movie date because Aaron’s an irresponsible dick.

He’s damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t.

“Sure it did,” Jeff replies, sighing. “What does he want?”

“He’s holding a private meeting. Said there’s been a change of plans he wants to discuss with us.”

“Mhmm. Well, I ain’t going. I’m not flaking on Rio, again.”

Aaron taps his knee.

_Failure to attend will not be tolerated._

“He said he’ll pay you for your time. And you could be promoted if you want.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jeff gives a derisive hoot of a laugh. “Man, you know I don’t give one goddamn iota about climbing up Pinhead’s corporate ladder.”

Aaron smirks at the nickname.

“Yeah, I know.”

Then the smirk fades because he knows the only way for Jeff to agree to go is to bring up...

“But, wouldn’t it be nice to take Rio on better dates?”

A loud slap resounds against the tabletop.

“For the last time, there’s nothing wrong with takin’ my girl out to La Vaca Loca!” Jeff shouts back louder than necessary, which makes Aaron toss his head back and laugh.

“Right. ’Cause it’s one step up from the food truck, and two up from Chilli Gong. Been treating your girl to real, authentic food, haven’t you? Getting her beans and rice like her _abuelita_ makes.”

There’s a pause, the action on-screen heats up, and then he hears: “Now see, them’s fighting words.”

Aaron notices a moment too late that the voice was closer than before. Spoken at a normal volume, not shouting over the music or sound effects. So he’s not prepared for the solid arm that wraps around his neck and traps him in a noogie.

Guess the news didn’t steal all of Jeff’s joy after all. It’s an unexpected but welcomed change.

“Aw, c’mon! Ain’t we too old for this?”

Aaron swings an arm back at Jeff’s head, trying to swat him away like an overgrown fly. But that only makes Jeff knuckle down harder.

“Ow, shi—Bro, quit, for real, you’re messing up my hair!”

“What’s that? You calling uncle?”

There’s a shit-eating grin in his voice.

“Nah, I’m calling the ass beating you’re gonna get if you fuck up my waves.”

Jeff stops abusing his head to guffaw.

“What waves, baldhead? Talking about these peppercorns growing out your scalp?”

He slaps at Aaron’s head as if wiping off dirt.

“ _Ooouie!_ Shit’s dusty. My sinuses acting up just looking at it!”

Aaron clicks his tongue.

“You know what...”

In his defense, he’s always hated resorting to childish counterattacks. But enough is enough. And his best bet to get out of the headlock is to bite Jeff’s arm.

So he does.

“Ouch! You mother—”

Jeff releases him, leaving him open for a solid double-tap in his chest. Aaron smirks while Jeff rubs the bite mark.

“That’s what you get.”

“I hate to say it, Aaron," Jeff says, pushing his glasses up. “But I expected better from you than a cheap trick like that.”

Aaron shrugs and settles back on the couch.

“You do what you gotta do when your back’s to the wall.”

“Cheater.”

Jeff smacks the back of his neck, laughing at the glare Aaron throws at him.

“You’re just mad I got a girl. A good one.”

Aaron rolls his eyes with a snort.

_Here we go._

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Romeo.”

“C’mon, admit it. You wish you had a fine lil’ Carla Espinosa of your own. Kissing your boo-boos and feeding you tortilla soup.”

Jeff chuckles as he pats Aaron’s shoulders.

“Don’t worry man, I got you. I’ll see if any of her friends like skinny, dusty, hip-hop heads. But you gotta tell me something first.”

“I’m this close to knocking your nappy ass out, on God,” Aaron says, pinching his index finger and thumb. “What?”

“Tell me, are you into nurses,” Jeff leans a little closer and whispers, “or deacons?”

There it is. The blood-red flag that triggers Aaron’s metaphorical bull.

He doesn’t register the swift swing to Jeff’s jaw. Only the numb throbbing in his knuckles. The burning flash of adrenaline. His pinched, racing heart.

Jeff’s holding his jaw, brows knitted and eyes wide.

“God _damn_ , Aaron! The fuck?”

Aaron shakes his hand, eyes narrowing, feeling anything but sorry.

“Don’t fuckin’ play with me, Jefferson. You know damn well that shit wasn’t funny.”

Jeff blinks hearing his full name. Then looks down. Aaron turns his back to him and faces the TV.

Silence settles between them. The movie’s playing a calmer scene, which only makes the stillness that much more palpable.

Minutes pass.

He doesn’t know what to say. Jeff doesn’t either.

He shuffles away into the kitchen. Then Aaron hears the deep rumble of the ice dispenser. He huffs, rubbing his temples. They were doing fine, all things considered. For once, they weren’t arguing. They were joking around, like the old days. But then Jeff and his big, dumb mouth had to—

A long sigh grabs his attention.

“C’mon Aaron, you know I was kidding. I know you’re not...you know.”

Aaron snorts, shaking his head. It’s been four years, and yet, the paper-thin strain of doubt is still there.

Ignoring the passing pinprick behind his ribs, he waves a hand.

“Whatever. Now like I was saying before your stupid ass distracted me...”

He forces himself to look over his shoulder at Jeff, who’s holding a bag of ice to his jaw. Grimaces for a half-second when he meets apologetic eyes.

“Play the Pin’s game a little while longer, save your dough, and treat your girl the way she deserves to be treated. That’s all I’m saying.”

Rolling his eyes, Jeff puts his free hand up in surrender.

“Alright, alright, I get it. You win. I’ll go see what the big, fat, don wants so I can spoil my girl with designer bags and red bottoms instead of loaded burritos and Diet Koka.”

Aaron’s certain if the past ten minutes had gone differently, they’d be laughing right now.

By the look on Jeff’s face, he’s thinking the same thing. Averting his eyes, he grabs the house phone off the end table.

“I’m gonna call Rio real quick,” he mutters in passing and disappears into the hallway.

Aaron turns the TV off, leans his head back against the couch, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

A great start to the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Would you believe me if I said the end of this chapter was originally going to end on a much lighter note? I have to rewrite quite a bit since Aaron punched Jeff lol)
> 
> Anyways, I based the brothers' looks on Aaron's phone screensaver. Hence why he has hair lol I don't know what age they are in that pic versus the photograph of them by the bridge, but I figured they were at least in their early twenties and the other photo was early 30s... I could be totally wrong idk  
> Also, I saw yuhki demers' visual dev work @artstation for Aaron's apartment and there was this interesting exposed invention of some sort and tools on the coffee table which inspired the "fixing the broken speaker" bit and some things I'll write in the future. (I guess that would mean spider verse aaron built his own tech versus the ult spiderman prowler who stole from the Tinkerer which sounds SO DAMN COOL. MAN'S HOT, FIERCE, AND GOT BIG BRAINS?? FUCK DUDE WHY WASN'T THAT IN THE MOVIE? ୧(⇀‸↼‶)૭)
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> If you enjoyed, stay tuned for the sin that is Part III.


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